


Richochet

by synchronik



Series: Away Games [5]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:17:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronik/pseuds/synchronik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buster and Tim have been on the same page for a month, now, and haven't got past second base. <i>Like the rest of the line-up,</i> Buster thinks and chuckles to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Richochet

The ball ricochets off the bat and into Buster's mask before he can even blink, let  
alone flinch. For a second, the world goes gray, and then everything comes back into  
focus and Buster checks the field. Foul ball. No one's moving.

Buster lifts the mask and rubs his eyes.

"You alright, kid?" The ump, leaning down, his eyes concerned behind his own  
mask. Umps always get it.

"Yeah." Buster digs his thumb into the corner of his eye. He's not. His face is numb  
and his jaw already aches. But there's one out and a man on first and Maddy's finally got  
some heat on the mound, and Buster's not going to kill the momentum waiting for  
Whiteside to get suited up. "I'm good," he says. "Let's go."

He's dropping the sign to Bumgarner when he sees a flicker of motion over at first.  
Huff, touching his belt, then his thigh, then his belt again. Runner's gonna go.

 _Sonofabitch_ , Buster thinks. He doesn't blame the kid--he'd go, too, if the  
opposing catcher just got dinged in the head--but it's still a pain in the ass. He signs  
Maddy, and then the ball's in his glove and he's up and throwing to second.

Two outs.

Bumgarner strikes out the batter easy and Buster's getting the signal that he's done  
before he's even to the dugout steps.

"Just precautionary," Boch says, slapping him on the shoulder as he goes by. Buster  
nods. He knows. And even if it weren't, he wouldn't care. His head's killing him.

There's a barrage of people after that: players, coaches, trainers, all wanting to see  
how he's doing, if he's okay. He will be, is the verdict, which he passes on to Kristen as  
soon as he gets a chance to call her. "You sure, sweets?" she says, and her voice is like a  
warm blanket curling around his shoulders. He closes his eyes.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm off tomorrow, too. It'll be fine."

As he hangs up, his phone dings. Text. COMING UP, K?

Y, Buster answers and opens the door of the hotel room, leaving it ajar and going to  
lie on the bed. Tim has been spending a lot of time in his room, these last few road trips.  
Buster's not sure how his room became the default when Tim has an equally nice hotel  
room of his very own on these road trips, but somehow it did. They make out  
sometimes--"taking it slow" Tim calls it--but mostly they just hang out, watching crappy  
television and talking about unimportant things.

Buster thinks that's a little funny. Most of the guys he's been with (which makes it  
sound like a hundred, but it's really more like a dozen. At most. Probably) have been  
fast. Not exactly "wam, bam, thank you, man," but once everyone understands what's  
going down it...goes down.

But he and Tim have been on the same page for a month, now, and haven't got past  
second base. _Like the rest of the line-up_ , Buster thinks and chuckles to himself.

"What's so funny?"

Buster opens his eyes. Lincecum, in soft cotton pants and a long-sleeved shirt and  
one of his stupid knit hats, like he's about to go join a jam band. Buster smiles at him.

"Nothing?"

"No?" Tim crawls up on to the bed, his knees on either side of Buster's thighs, his  
hands pressed into the mattress next to Buster's head. "You look like shit, man," he says.

Buster laughs again, even though it makes his head hurt. "I got hit in the face with a  
baseball," he says. "You do that and we can talk."

"Facemask," Tim says. "You got hit in the _facemask_."

"Fuck you," Buster says affectionately, and closes his eyes. It's an invitation, and  
Tim recognizes it right away, leaning down and brushing his mouth gently along Buster's  
cheekbone to his ear.

"You alright?" Tim whispers. His breath sends a shiver down Buster's spine.

"Yeah."

He feels Tim smile against his cheek, then the gentle pressure of Tim's teeth on his  
earlobe. "Excellent."

Tim's tongue is warm and wet and slides down Buster's neck in one smooth motion  
like Tim's gliding down a hill. Then Tim settles back--Buster feels his weight shift--and  
the next thing he knows, Tim's hands are on his belt.

"Hey!" Buster yelps, sitting up. He regrets it immediately: it feels like someone  
jabbed a fork into his left eye.

"What?" Tim asks. He hasn't taken his hands off Buster's belt.

Buster doesn't know what to say. Stop? No, he doesn't want Tim to stop. "Nothing,"  
he says. "You just surprised me is all."

Tim rolls his eyes. "Lie down."

Buster lies back down. He resists the urge to throw an arm over his eyes. His belt is  
off in a second, and his pants are open, and Tim is sliding down his body, pushing his  
shirt up and his briefs down ( _not enough_ , Buster thinks, wiggling), and Tim's  
tongue is on his stomach, below his belly button and moving lower in hot wet circles.

Buster won't remember the next fifteen minutes with any coherence later. He knows  
that Tim moves gently, slowly, until Buster's thighs are trembling and his cock feels like  
it's ten feet long. Tim seems to barely touch him, but somehow he's everywhere, his  
mouth, the tips of his fingers. Buster holds his breath so long, waiting, anticipating, that  
he gets light-headed.

And then Tim curls his hand and his tongue around Buster's cock and Buster can't  
help it, he's shouting--"oh, Tim, ohmygod, Tim, fuck, _Tim_ "--and it seems to last  
forever, his back arched, legs shaking, eyes screwed closed.

When he opens them--when he can finally breathe again--Tim is lying on his side  
next to Buster's hip, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He's still wearing the  
stupid hat. He stops when he sees Buster looking at him. "Feel better?"

Buster groans. He cannot answer that question. He flips Tim off instead.

"That's the last get-well-soon blow job I ever give you, man." Tim slides up until  
he's lying next to Buster on the pillow, his eyes opening and closing slowly. He's just  
given Buster the blowjob of his life and now he's dozing off. Unbelievable.

"You're unbelievable," Buster says. He means it both ways.

Tim smiles with his eyes shut. Although he's close, they're not actually touching  
until Tim reaches out blindly and puts his hand squarely on Buster's where it rests on his  
chest. His fingers curl loosely into Buster's. Buster squeezes back. His headache is  
gone.

The End


End file.
